Mission Compromised (43 page)

Newman smiled. He knew he had a well-honed, high-spirited group. Despite the quick change in their mission, the operation was going well. In fact, the only glitch since the change in target was the unexpected delay in getting the MD-80 out from the States. He had wanted to use it to transport the ISEG from Muscat to Incirlik, but Dan Robertson had sent him a coded e-mail explaining that the USAF Spec Ops people wanted to change out the pilots for the new mission and the new crew had to practice flying the commercial airliner without the tail cone and with the rear hatch opened as it would be for parachute inserts.

Somehow, Robertson had diverted the C-130 to Muscat from courier service for the U.S. embassies in Africa. Newman vowed to call Harrod if the UN-marked MD-80 wasn't on base at Incirlik by Monday night.

At first, Newman had been concerned about the morale effect of the change in Primary Team for the mission. Had they gone after Aidid in Somalia as originally planned, the all-black Team Bravo would have carried out the hit. Newman was afraid the quick substitution of the Middle Eastern Team Echo might have hurt the ISEG's focus.

Echo had been looking forward to the planned capture of Mir Aimal Kansi, a Pakistani terrorist who had murdered two CIA agents in a brazen ambush near their Langley, Virginia, headquarters in 1993. Kansi was reportedly holed up in Afghanistan, suspected of being in league with Osama bin Laden, who was known to also have terrorist operations in Sudan. Echo would have been the point team in that operation. Some Afghanis who had heard about the $2 million reward for Kansi were willing to turn him over to the Americans.

Though Harrod and the CIA wanted Kansi's head, they would wait if the ISEG wanted to deliver bin Laden's first. If they could kill Saddam, bin Laden, and their key terror-planners, then people like Kansi would be like a hand without a brain to instruct it. To a man, Newman believed, the ISET understood the importance of the current mission. Bravo knew their turn would come, and Echo would be ready to do the job at hand. Every indicator of the mens' attitudes looked good to Newman.

Coombs and McDade met Newman and the ISEG on the Tarmac. They ushered the men into the hangar. The yawning interior had been quartered off with portable partitions. One corner had been converted into a billet, complete with military bunks and lockers. Beside it were piles
of boxes, ammunition cases, and a miniature armory. The left front, near the big doors, was a well-equipped gym, complete with free weights and benches. And next to it was a briefing area with five rows of folding chairs facing the wall where maps of Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Iran, and Turkey were tacked to sheets of plywood.

“On the far side, through that door, we have offices for the commanders,” said Coombs, pointing. “As soon as the troops find their assigned bunks and get their gear stowed, we've arranged for them to eat breakfast at the USAF mess, just beyond the next hangar.”

“Your toy from Area 51 in Nevada is in the big hangar right next door, nobody around here even bats an eye when people like us or equipment like that shows up in the middle of the night. They're so used to this stuff around here,” McDade added.

Newman nodded in approval. “Good work, guys. Let's get the troops fed and then back here for a brief. Has anyone heard from Dan Robertson on the whereabouts of our MD-80?”

McDade and Coombs looked at each other and both said almost at once, “You don't know?”

“Know what?”

“About the change-out in the pilots for the MD-80,” said Coombs.

“Yeah, I got that message from Dan Robertson before I left Muscat. What's the problem?”

“Well,” continued Coombs, “it looks like the President has gotten involved. He found out there are no female shooters in our operation, and he told Harrod he wants a woman involved in this mission. Jabba the Hutt has the Air Force scrambling around trying to find a female pilot who can fly the MD-80.”

“Over my dead body,” said Newman, heading off in the direction of the offices.

After breakfast, Sergeant Major Gabbard had the teams square away their billeting area, then he took them into the hangar next door to show them the Global Hawk. “All right, kiddies, remember,” he said, sliding the door open, “you can look, but don't touch.”

The all-black UAV was situated sideways on small dollies in the hangar; its 116-foot wingspan was too wide to fit through the hangar's doors. The ISEG officers and men gaped as two white-coated civilian engineers explained to them how they had replaced more than half of the fuel with a corresponding weight of C-4 plastic explosive … how the craft would be slid out of the hangar … how it would be launched under its own power, guided by radio and computer to the target area … and how the new sensor in its nose would seek out the reflected beam of a Laser Target Designator.

An hour later, the ISEG filed back into their hangar for the mission brief from McDade, Coombs, Weiskopf, and finally Newman. As the two-hour briefing and discussion wound up, Newman stood in front of the map of Iraq and the surrounding region. “Let's run over the high points one last time. If all goes according to plan, the MD-80 will enter Iraqi air space behind a flight of F-16s and EA-6Bs. We believe Iraqi radar operators will think the MD-80 is the tanker that normally accompanies the no-fly enforcement missions. We'll drop ISET Echo from thirty thousand feet. The Exit Point for Echo is here, about forty kilometers west of Tikrit and ten klicks north of Lake Tharthar. In theory, we'll be well to the west of any SAM sites, and the hope is that the EA-6Bs will guide a HARM down the throat of any Iraqi crazy enough to keep their radar on.

“Echo, your mission is pretty straightforward once you're on the ground. You move under cover of darkness as close as you can to the presidential palace at Tikrit, ID the building where the terrorist convention
is taking place, and illuminate the building with the LTD. Once the target is lit, call us and we'll send the Global Hawk to make a house call. Then be prepared for the havoc that'll follow.

“Once you're out the rear hatch, the MD-80 will return here and fuel up. We're going to try to re-position it at Siirt, the closest Turkish air base to the Iraqi border, as a mobile command post. If the Turks agree, ISETs Bravo, Charlie, and Delta will move up there with Captain Coombs and me. Delta, you'll provide countersurveillance and security for the command post. Bravo and Charlie, you're the QRE We're going to beg, borrow, or steal some four-by-fours for you in case you have to make a dash across the border to help Echo. Alpha, you will remain here at Incirlik with Lieutenant McDade to assist in securing and launching the Global Hawk. Once the UAV is gone, you will help in extracting Echo if we have to use our fallback option.

“We have two methods for getting Echo out of Iraq. The preferred method applies if the UAV works as planned and there's a subsequent power struggle for control of the Iraqi government. Under those circumstances, Echo will simply don native garb, commandeer a vehicle, drive north to Mosul, and link up with the QRF in the area between Mosul and Zakhu. Once you're north of Mosul, you're fairly safe because the Kurds and the Iraqi National Congress resistance forces control the territory.

“Our
fallback plan is a whole lot more complicated, but we may need it if Saddam somehow survives and there is a full-scale manhunt for Echo. If that happens, Echo will go underground in the daylight and, after dark, head due west to this area here, marked on your maps and preprogrammed into your GPS receivers as ‘Checkpoint X-ray.' You'll notice on your maps that it's slightly higher ground, hill 837, in the desert about 125 klicks east of the Syrian border. That's where Echo will call in the air drop for Fultons.”

“Hey, at Disney World they make you pay for rides like that,” cracked someone in the back of the room.

They all knew about the Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery System, and each had been trained in how to use STARS, though having done it once, few ever waited in line to do it again. The device was so high-risk that it was used only to extricate Special Ops teams so deep in enemy territory that there was no other way of getting them out.

Each STARS canister contained the equipment to extract two men and it could be dropped from almost any tactical aircraft. Once dropped, the canister deployed a small parachute to prevent damage to the equipment inside. Each canister contained helium bottles, a balloon, and a five-hundred-foot nylon line with one end affixed to the balloon and the other fastened to parachute harnesses sewn into two recovery suits for the personnel to be rescued. The procedure required the men to inflate the balloon with helium after strapping themselves into the suits. Then an MC-130, equipped with guard cables and a V-shaped nose yoke, would swoop in low, snag the nylon line, and snatch the harnessed troops off the ground. The men would then be hauled into the rear ramp of the rescue aircraft.

“There are other contingency plans, rendezvous points, emergency exfiltration orders, and the radio frequency plan for the operation in the packets of materials Captain Coombs put on your seats. Are there any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” it was Specialist First Class Maloof, of ISET Echo. “What altitude did you say we're going to be at when we exit the MD-80?”

“Depending on wind and weather, between twenty-five and thirty thousand,” Newman replied. “You'll have internal oxygen on the aircraft
until we arrive in the vicinity of the exit point. Then you'll switch to your personal oxygen bottles for the ride down.”

“How far are we going to have to hike to get to Tikrit?” asked another Echo trooper.

“Well, I'll put you out as close as we can without risking the bird. Once you're out, glide as far as possible toward Tikrit. When you get on the ground, bury your chutes and start overland. You have the photos of the building you have to illuminate. Remember, you have to have everything set up by the morning of the sixth.”

There were no other questions, though Newman knew from experience that there would be hundreds more as the men went through the op plan and thought about the things they'd have to do in the next week. Just before they were dismissed, McDade came up again and reminded them to read carefully the intelligence material in their packets.

As Newman and Weiskopf walked back to the office space on the other side of the hangar, the Delta Force captain said, “You think we'll get the go-ahead for this, or will some whiz kid in Washington pull the plug on us again?”

“I sure hope this is a go, Josh. I can't tell you how much I'd like to be on the ground at Tikrit when that Global Hawk slams into the palace. I have to admit: for me, it's personal. I want to get Aidid for killing my brother,
and bin
Laden, for helping him do it.”

“Bin Laden. Isn't he the guy that was behind the New York Trade Center bombing in '93?”

Newman nodded. “But this time we're gonna get him.”

“Well, I'll drink to that,” Weiskopf said, raising his half-empty plastic water bottle and taking a swig.

 

Newman Home

________________________________________

Falls Church, VA
Saturday, 25 February 1995
2230 Hours, Local

 

Rachel wondered what her husband was doing right now, and where he was. He had taken her out to dinner the Saturday night before he departed, and apologized profusely for being so caught up in his work that he was neglecting her. “I'm planning on being back no later than the middle of March,” he had told her. That was more information than she usually got from him. Rachel didn't have the heart to tell her husband of her discussions with Sandy and her attorney about a possible divorce. Later that evening, she and Peter had enjoyed a romantic and passionate night.

And then, on Sunday morning, he had gotten up at 0600 and asked her to drop him at Andrews AFB. As usual when they were together, he drove, and even though the Washington Beltway was virtually deserted, she noticed that he was constantly checking the rear view mirrors.

“What's the matter P. J., afraid of getting a ticket?” she had asked playfully. His only response had been to put a finger to his lips mysteriously and to turn up the car radio.

A short while later, after crossing the Potomac on the Wilson Bridge, he exited onto Indian Head Highway. “Rache, let's stop and get some breakfast. My flight isn't for another hour and I'm hungry.”

They pulled into the McDonald's at the intersection with Brinkley Road. Instead of getting in line to order, he headed to a seat by the window. “I'm going to make some notes for while I'm gone,” he said. “Would you order for us, please?”

By the time she returned with the food, he was staring out the window at the parking lot where they had left their car. The fast food restaurant
was getting busy, and she thought he was worried about his car. “Hey big guy, relax. If somebody hits that old Tahoe of yours, it'll give us an excuse to buy a new one.”

He didn't even smile. Instead, when she sat down across from him, he slid a cell phone across the table to her. Underneath the cell phone was a three-by-five card with his writing on it.

“Listen to me, Rache. This cell phone is for you to use if for some reason you don't hear from me by March 8. On the card are three numbers. The first number is for that cell phone. The second number is for Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North—you remember him from Camp Lejeune, when I was in 3/8, ten … no, eleven years ago. The third number is for Lieutenant General George Grisham, my boss at HQMC, before I got sent to the Snake Pit.”

“Snake pit?”

“The White House.”

“P. J., what's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Not yet, and I don't intend to be either. But I am concerned about what this White House has me doing—not because I'm in physical danger, but because I don't trust these people one iota. Don't use that cell phone for anyone but those two men. And don't call either of them on any phone except that cell phone. Also, don't use it inside the house. I don't know whether the house is bugged or not.”